


Inlaid with Nacre

by Rialto



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mild Gore, Psychological Trauma, Slurs, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-07 18:35:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rialto/pseuds/Rialto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Seven weeks after he buried little Anya next to his wife, Erik Lehnsherr force-fed a bullion to a banker in Bavaria.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Powered!Regency AU with less ballroom dancing and more mayhem and mad scientists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Vikings Were Right

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for this kink meme prompt requesting a Charles/Erik historical AU with powers: http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/8074.html?thread=17913482#t17913482
> 
> C&C is welcome, and huge thanks go to A.O. for her encouragement and feedback!

Seven weeks after he buried little Anya next to his wife, Erik Lehnsherr force-fed a bullion to a banker in Bavaria. The victim was well-liked by his neighbours, had a splendid taste in Florentine old master paintings, and was a major beneficiary of the Hep-Hep pogroms. As Lehnsherr watched the man's throat stretch and straighten with the blood gold, he decided he quite liked this form of justice. It was elegant in its symmetry and neatness.

The half-dozen equally deserving men that quickly followed did little to help Lehnsherr forget about lace bonnets and tiny caskets, but at least his people were being properly avenged. No longer tethered by the happiness of being loved, he hunted his way across the Continent as if he were on a rather murderous Grand Tour. From his bloodied footsteps soon sprouted rumours of a golem, a violent creature created to wreck havoc on gentile evildoers. Lehnsherr found the comparison rather fitting and almost flattering. However, instead of a rabbi with long-forgotten letters, the maker of this particular monster was a clean-shaven gentleman with a muslin cravat and a glass scalpel. He was also irritatingly skilled at hiding, even without the mess of the ongoing war making passage difficult.

So four years after the grand debut, this macabre pilgrimage ended at an ostentatiously furnished apartment in Copenhagen. Target number fourteen had finally dispensed with his misguided sense of loyalty, and Lehnsherr found himself with an unfamiliar English name and address. Flicking his knives clean before floating them back into the folds of his cloak, he felt an old, beautifully honed fury resurface for the first time since he'd left it to rust at the altar. It sliced clean through the heavy weight that had been smothering him, and after a moment he noticed his mouth was pulled into a smile. Ensconcing himself in a deeply ugly Rococo armchair, he helped himself to a rummer of liquor and some dainty pastries, his now silent companion staring at him with glazed eyes. He grinned and toasted him, knocking back the glass with relish.

It was time for the prodigal son to pay a visit.

***

Lieutenant-Colonel Earl Charles Xavier of the 3rd Special Brigade woke to the sounds of cannons and half-crushed men weeping for their mothers. It was disturbing in its familiarity, how fear and pleas for comfort knew no flags or languages. They were all the same, ringing through his head like musket shots, sharp bursts of bright flame before sparking out. Xavier blinked owlishly, and got to his feet. Or tried to. He fell back into the cold mud with a squelch, his fall cushioned by tattered friend and foe alike. Dazed, Xavier propped himself up onto his elbows and looked.

"By God, I seem to have lost a leg," he muttered. And by God so he had. The bone of his shin was very red.

A terrible awareness was beginning to seep in, blurring his vision and quickening his breath. He scrambled to tie off the stump with one of his uniform straps, numb fingers clumsy on the leather. Somewhere in the distance, another fire went out.

It took him a while to notice the approaching galloping. His head jerked up, his hands instinctively at his rifle. And then he almost laughed uncontrollably at the absurdity before him.

The Norse had been right, and now there was a Valkyrie coming to collect him. Mounted on a black warhorse, her billowing hair glorious in the golden dusk, her gown shockingly pristine. But most of all, her skin, an unmistakable blue reminiscent of the painted Celts. 

He couldn't decide if it was an act of kindness or cruelty for his goddess of death to take the appearance of the sister he had left behind. 

He was about to deliver a polite greeting when she yelled, "Charles! Wake up this instance, you dolt! You've dragged half the household into your cursed nightmare again!"

Oh.

Oh bleeding bullocks, not again.

***

The chair beside Raven was pulled back, and a dispirited Charles slumped down onto it, hooking his walking cane onto the edge of the table. Outside, a carriage was taking their now former cook far, far away. Raven poured her brother some tea and added a touch of milk. He nodded in thanks, and then took a thick slice of plum cake. His clothing was still loose in places, but it was already a great improvement from when she had watched him shiver with fever. She swallowed and tried not to think about it.

"Three servants in under two months, I can't believe this. Raven, how is Mr. Woodsworth faring?" Not even years of keeping uncouth company in the military had prepared Charles for their new groundskeeper’s blistering cursing. 

“Not thrilled by the surprise encounter with Boney’s army, but already out and about trimming the hedges. He requested you send him to a nice spa resort next time.”

Charles smiled a little into his tea at that, but his relief was evident. Their generous salary had proven to be no guarantee for loyalty at the House of Horrors, as the locals had taken to calling the estate. Raven was going to dearly miss Mrs. Clark’s rarebit. Their elderly maid Maude didn’t have quite the same touch, and for all of his enthusiasm and new skills he had acquired, Charles’ expertise over delicate concoctions and equipment did not extend beyond the laboratory and the teapot. The kitchen ceiling still bore the marks of the porridge he had attempted to make the moment he was allowed out of the sickbed. Cheekily, Raven reminded him of the incident just to see his ears redden.

“What a charming scene to behold! Good morn, Lord Xavier, Lady Raven.”

The line of her back stiffened, and out of the corner of her eye Charles barely contained his flinch. Not for the first time, she was glad Charles had insisted on her adopting her more conforming appearance even when they were alone. Or believed they were alone. Their guest had an unsettling ability of catching them unawares.

“Good morning Doctor, I do apologize for last night’s disturbance. Please, join us for breakfast.”

Impeccably if a little flamboyantly dressed in velvets, the doctor strode into the drawing room and seated himself opposite of Charles.

“Oh, no need to worry on my account. I have come well-prepared after all,” he said smiling, tapping his helmet. It was a strange metal thing, incongruous with the rest of his attire. Raven had found it daft when Dr. Shaw had first stepped into their home the previous fortnight, his hat resting almost comically on top of it. She still found it daft as he poured himself some port and helped himself to the roast beef specially prepared for him. Crimson pooled onto his porcelain plate beneath the pink slabs of flesh, and Charles carefully kept his eyes on the doctor’s face. Raven tried not to grit her teeth. Finally the doctor tucked in, the strokes of his knife precise and clean, and something akin to a polite silence settled over the room. Charles helped Raven refill her teacup, and she his plate.

“So, should it be safe to assume the dosage is no longer effective, sir?” Dr. Shaw had torn off a piece of Yorkshire pudding, and was using it to soak up the remaining juices. 

Charles’ smile was a little tight. “As the previous night has demonstrated rather clearly, unfortunately.”

“And I’ve heard even the poor chap living in the far end of the east wing was affected this time. How extraordinary, Lord Xavier, it appears your range has expanded considerably.” 

“So it has,” Charles agreed dryly. Then he ventured, “Doctor, I would like to see the list of ingredients of the elixir you’ve been prescribing me. I assure you I have no intention of profiting from your trade secrets, and only wish to aid you in improving its potency. As you may already know, I am trained in the medicinal and chemical sciences.”

Dr. Shaw’s eyebrows flew up. “I have never doubted your noble intentions or capabilities, my lord. However, the elixir has been ultimately unhelpful to your condition, as shown very recently.”

“It may have been unhelpful in its current form, but surely it can benefit from an outside assessment.”

“Which may take too much precious time to conduct, given the current rate of deterioration. Instead, let me inform you of some news I have just received earlier this morning. Back in my London laboratories my colleagues have successfully completed and tested a contraption that would be of most interest to you.”

Charles blinked at the sudden change of topic, but said, “Oh, I remember now. You’ve mentioned a machine for people with similar conditions as mine.”

“Yes indeed, and I have the utmost confidence that it can free you of the unpleasant visions and the like brought on by your battle fatigue. I’m certain Lady Raven has already proven herself more than capable of handling the estate affairs in your absence,” Dr. Shaw said, his head inclining politely towards Raven. She forced a smile.

He leaned forward, steeping his fingers. “In fact, I would like to extend to you an invitation to my London offices not only for further treatment, but as an opportunity to meet and work with some of the brightest minds of our kind, Lord Xavier. State of the art equipment, and the most extensive research documentation at your perusal. There, we could work together to find a cure for both you and for other sufferers, as well as provide you the resources to conduct your own research when you are feeling well. Have you not expressed an interest in understanding our gifts? I will also disclose everything you wish to know about the elixir if your curiosity has not abated by then. But surely there will be plenty of research topics and lines of discovery more worthy of your intellect than something that has failed to help you?

“We are the children of revolutions, Lord Xavier. And not only the political ones from across the Atlantic and the Channel, or that of the _Aufklärung_ \-- oh, beg your pardon, I mean the Enlightenment. Or even the ongoing one driven by pig iron and the Watt engine. I speak of the revolution that is just about to unfold. The one led by special men like us, gifted in our blood. The Recognition Act, for which you have sacrificed so much, was merely herald of our inheriting this world. The foundations of a new era are being laid, and it is your chance to take part in writing this chapter in history. “

The doctor had taken to pacing around the table, hands behind his back. Raven tried not to roll her eyes at his theatrics.

“Our extraordinary brothers,” he continued, “with their wondrous powers, both physical and mental. So astounding, yet so capable of self-destruction if left unguided. And surely you, of all the men gifted with clairvoyance, are aware of the dangers of the psyche. Your leg, Lord Xavier, is it not a phantom wound inflicted by a dear brother in arms?” His gaze on Charles’ walking cane was soft with pity. “I promise you, my lord, you will regain complete mastery over both your birthright and physical faculties, and come out of this arduous journey a stronger, more formidable man.”

Silence. Had it been a year or two ago, Charles might have enthusiastically shared the doctor’s wonder, gesturing animatedly as he would babble about some new theory or invention. Now, there was just a subtle longing on his features before he smoothed it over into polite alertness, his hands motionless and tame on the table. Raven passed a pleading glance at her brother, but he appeared ignorant to her message, his attention on the doctor undivided as if he were trying to decypher a difficult text. 

Finally, he said, “I will consider your invitation, doctor.”

“Excellent! I knew you would see reason in this proposal,” Shaw exclaimed. “Now, my lord, I believe it is time for your physical examination...”

***

Two days and another episode later, this time involving a full re-creation of a deserter’s execution in the dining room and Charles screaming in Flemish, Raven found her brother sitting in front of a half-packed trunk. He started at the sound of her footsteps, and turned to her. He looked jaundiced in the candlelight, a flickering spectre in the dark room.

“Raven, I know, from your own words and conduct, what you feel about the doctor, but he is the best source of knowledge there is about our kind. ”

“And he’ll strap you down and dissect you like a drugged rat to become an even better source. Charles, it’s obvious he wanted you in his laboratories from the very start. And ‘Hellfire Club’? What good could come out of place with a ghastly name like that?”

He paused, holding a leather notebook. 

“He has the curiosity and drive of a man of science. It may appear unsociably forward and inappropriate at times, but it isn’t malicious. Surely he only wishes to understand my condition.”

“Is your recovery truly on his mind every time he sticks you full of needles and bleeds you dry? Of course you wouldn’t know, he doesn’t even trust his patient to disclose what his own ‘gift’ is. ”

The lid of the trunk was shut closed. “He wears that helmet for his own safety, and I can’t fault him for it.” 

“I’ve seen how much he unsettles you. How could you trust that man without knowing what he is truly scheming?”

“The same way anyone without my ‘gift’ would. The same way I’ve been trusting _you_ , Raven.” His tone had taken on a trace of bitterness.

Raven felt a flash of anger heat her face. 

“How is asking a brother to respect one’s dearest privacy the same as --”

Suddenly, their nostrils were flooded with the sharp smell of gunpowder laced with something that Raven had come to learn second-hand as burnt flesh. Alarmed, Charles frowned in concentration, and the stench vanished as quickly as it had appeared. She was still gagging into her handkerchief when he announced:

“As you can see, I’m no longer fit for good company. I shall be staying in London for two months.” Dread bloomed in her chest.

“In London, Charles! With all those people trampling about, tormenting your head with migraines and nightmares?”

“Dr. Shaw has assured me his offices have been specially fitted to block out mental disturbances for patients like me. Some sort of special alloy, he said.”

“Then use it to line the mansion walls or something!”

“Raven,” he started, his voice almost brittle. “ Do you remember the Barthelomew fairs? Those garish dolls on sale you begged to buy every time? The cheer of the crowd at the sight of a clever acrobat? And ice skating on the Thames during the frost fairs? How we would then stroll down New Street to see all those new and strange shops? Even those dinner parties mother, bless her soul, loved to throw where we’d bully each other into dancing with our friends.

“I want that back. All of it. I want to attend conferences and converse with fellow scientists over new discoveries-- I want to trek through the jungles of India, mount an expedition to Afghanistan or the Galapagos Islands. I want to visit my old brothers in arms, and not see and duplicate the horrors that haunt them. I want to play football with my friends from Oxford again. I want to enjoy a simple walk in town and not fear I’d summon an artillery strike onto the crowd.”

For just a moment, a vivid intensity burned behind his once bird-bright eyes. Raven had to force herself not to look away from its painful familiarity.

“I want to be just myself again, not drowning in the memories of dozens of young men who have died horrific deaths. I refuse,” he spat out, glaring at his whole but useless leg, “to be crippled and caged by this, this disease.” 

And then, more softy, “I want to find you a good husband, Raven, one who would love you whether you’re blue or blonde or lavender stripped with pink or whatever the heavens you feel like being. I want to help those like us understand and accept their birthright and capabilities, to be proud of who they are.” For all the grudging recognition their kind had been granted for their service during the war and other matters, visceral fear and disgust were not something that could be dispelled by the stroke of a pen. It would have been naïve for either sibling to believe otherwise.

Raven felt her throat tighten at Charles’ retort, but scrambled to find a riposte nonetheless. “I want you to get better too! But are you so willing to sever and cast off that very part of you you yourself are so proud of?” She never did have Charles’ ease with rhetorics.

“Regaining control has always been the outcome Dr. Shaw and I are striving for. But if that proves to be impossible,” he took a deep breath, “then I will seek to amputate this festering limb. Anything would be an improvement from this hell.”

“But surely there must be alternatives! Once Henry returns--”

“Mr. McCoy,” Charles said flatly, his mouth twisted with guilt, “is still recovering himself, and is in no condition to be further burdened with my troubles. I am well aware of the risks involved in this trip, but if it means being freed from this blasted affliction, then by God I’ll go with it. Now, goodnight, Raven.” And with that, he retired to his bedroom, his hobble more pronounced than usual.

The following morning, Raven found the mansion missing both its master and its guest. At breakfast, Maude informed her of their sudden departure at the crack of dawn, handing her a note of apology Charles had left for her. It was written in his effortlessly flowing hand on thick, delicately scented paper, terribly awkward in its formality, and utterly like Charles.

Many, many times later, Raven would take out that note and recall their quarrel, sorrow weighing her down like an anchor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"By God, I seem to have lost my leg."_ \-- Shamelessly stolen from Lord Uxbridge who said to the Duke of Wellington during the Battle of Waterloo, "By God, sir, I've lost my leg!" Reportedly, Wellington's reply was "By God, sir, so you have!"


	2. Year Without A Summer

It was unbelievable. Something straight out of a dreadful, third-rate story paper.

“Stand and deliver! Don’t make me repeat myself!” the voice boomed outside their blocked carriage. Charles peered out the window, and, surely enough, there was masked horseman pointing a pistol at their terrified coachman. The stretch of woodland they had been passing through was isolated but well-frequented, so Charles had thought little of another traveller’s presence ahead until he stepped into their path and loudly demanded they relieved themselves of their silver. The man looked well-fed, his tailored clothing rich, his horse short but magnificent.

“How delightfully quaint!” laughed Dr. Shaw as he stared with Charles. “I thought highwaymen had gone out of fashion by now!”

They had indeed, with the installation of tolled roads and security, a rare benefit that came from the taking of the common lands. But it seemed that some habits were resistant to changing times.

“How long do you reckon before a patrol arrives, my lord?” The highwayman had taken to gesturing violently with his pistol, smirking at the coachman’s stuttering. Charles frowned in disapproval. 

“Possibly not soon enough,” muttered Charles as he adjusted his hat and opened the door. A cool breeze blew in. “Doctor, please stay inside.” 

Their poor coachman was little more than a boy who had insisted on taking over his father’s job for the day, likely ignorant at how to use the musket he was clinging onto, and it was bad form for a gentleman to let his companion be put into danger no matter how seemingly little sense of self-preservation he had. Therefore, Charles had to take care of the matter himself. A mental assault was absolutely out of the question; he no longer trusted his control in that category. Carefully, he alighted the vehicle, shutting the door behind him, and found the ground to be tacky from the previous day’s rainfall, but not lacking in traction.

“Good sir,” he cried out, reaching into his waistcoat pocket. He leaned heavily onto his walking cane, hobbling a few paces forward. “I have a few guineas in this pouch, and a handsome pocketwatch. Promise us safe passage and I’ll deliver these items to you.”

The highwayman directed his mount towards him, revelling at how he lorded over the crippled fop of a noble brat. Charles suppressed a sigh, but he had to admit there was something almost nostalgic about this bully’s contempt.

“Then be a good lad and pass them over. And that fine cane you have there as well. Ebony, isn’t that?” A fleshy palm was thrust at Charles. All that was missing from the picture was a assortment of heavy rings on each plump finger.

Obligingly, Charles raised his cane by its shaft, and, with a smooth motion, knocked the pistol out of the robber’s hand with a precise blow to the wrist, hooked the handle around the man’s neck, and then, with both hands, sharply flung him down onto the ground. Whilst the stunned man, still hanging from a stirrup, spat out pebbles and soft earth, Charles relieved him from his indignity and knocked him unconscious. True to the gelding’s good breeding, it barely budged, its tail merely flicking about in annoyance.

The entire affair was almost disappointing. Predictable, even. Charles hadn’t even needed to summon help; Davis would have loved to see this.

He nearly jumped when he heard clapping from behind him.

“Doctor, I did tell you to stay in the carriage,” he said, moving the highwayman’s head to its side. 

“Oh, but I have the most robust of faith in your abilities, my lord. Here, some spare reins to wrap up your gift for the next changing station.” 

The poor coachman was still shivering as Charles and Shaw worked to secure the outlaw, his fear a jittery tension at the back of Charles’ mind. Nodding at the doctor, who had a surprising skill in tying knots, to finish off the job, Charles made his way back to their carriage to soothe the lad’s nerves. The boy’s knobbly knees were tight together, his grip white on the dark wood of the musket. Charles had seen this often enough to know he needed to work quickly.

“Young man, you’re safe now,” Charles said gently as if the coachman was a spooked horse. “You should put that away, you wouldn’t want to hurt someone by accident, now do you?” 

The boy started, then shook his head weakly, finally relaxing as he- 

A flock of birds was jolted into flight, one of its members crashing to the forest floor.

***

An unfamiliar ceiling, stained orange by the sunset outside, and the warmth of a woollen blanket soaking his lax limbs. There was a murmuring of voices and thoughts beyond the walls. Charles sat up on the bed, glancing at the simple but sturdy wooden furniture around him. The mid-sized room was well-kept if impersonal with its clean whitewashed walls and hardwood floors. In a corner laid his and Dr. Shaw’s trunks along with Charles’ hat and boots, and the doctor’s writing materials occupied the writing desk. The events leading to him being relocated to a bed were a blank to him, but he could make a fair guess. Charles rubbed his forehead in frustration.

There was a knock on the oak door, and the lack of presence behind it betrayed the identity of his visitor before he even entered.

“Wonderful timing, Lord Xavier, I had just ordered a late dinner from the innkeeper and was going to revive you with the smelling salts. Are you experiencing any migraines? Any old visions while you were unconscious? How are your barriers?” The doctor had changed into something more casual, foregoing his coat and hat altogether. He wasted no time taking Charles’ pulse with cool fingers while Charles briefly inspected his mental walls.

Finding no serious breaches in his defences, he replied, “I seem fine, thank you, although I have no recollection whatsoever about the events after--I presume the gun went off. How is the poor boy?” 

“Oh, he had quite a fright, but otherwise is perfectly unharmed,’ said Dr. Shaw easily, jotting down notes into his half-bound notebook as he often did. ”It was most fortunate the weapon wasn’t pointed at anyone. No, no need for that face, your gift was inactive the entire time.”

Charles was frowning at the strange emotion slowly unfurling at the doctor’s answer. It was not relief. 

Dr. Shaw finished recording his observations with a sharp flourish of his quill, and blotted his work. Then he said, “I have already dealt with the constable regarding our gentleman outlaw, and you might be pleased to note that you have received a tidy reward for your troubles. Please, my lord, your only concern is in regaining your strength.” 

As if on cue, the door opened to an inn maid carrying a tray of food. The doctor's face split into a smile at the sight of the meal as it was deposited onto the small side table, his teeth flashing. Charles discreetly let his eyes slide to the side, and tried to dismiss his uncharitable thoughts about automatons. 

The inn maid gave the doctor’s helmet a puzzled look before leaving. _They get weirder by the season,_ overheard Charles.

The doctor lit an oil lamp with a tinderbox, and passed Charles his cutlery, insisting he stayed in bed. Dinner was quite a hearty affair, with pigeon pies, fish stew, cheeses, and tankards of ale. Charles found his appetite to be very healthy, the good food vastly raising his spirits. Half-way through the meal, he suddenly remembered his manners and thanked the doctor for taking care of everything while he was out of commission. 

“Nonsense, you _are_ my patient after all. But as much as the rewards for being a hero of the road are very tempting indeed, ” said the doctor, chewing on a pigeon leg, “surely now you must be convinced of the advantages of the phaeton. Time saved aside, the flying horses would flatten any bandit on the road. Or, if you were more adventurous in spirit, there are the new locomotives that will soon stretch across the country. Mark my words, my lord, the future will run on steam and iron.”

Charles chuckled at that; Dr. Shaw had always been a reliable source of inappropriate remarks.

“I am sorry to contradict your assumptions, my good doctor, but I think the breakneck pace would be the end of me,” replied Charles genially as he tapped a few drops of laudanum into his drink. He usually disliked resorting to opiates, but he was going to need them soon with the evening’s traffic filling up the inn.

“Ha! Ten miles an hour is nothing compared to this extraordinary young gentleman from Kingston who could move at the most astounding of speeds. I had the honour of meeting him last autumn.” Charles perked up at the mention of one of their own, and listened, enraptured, to the doctor’s accounts until the medicine started to pull at him with the promise of a deep, dreamless slumber.

As the lamp was extinguished and Charles clumsily pulled his blanket to his chin, he made a note to send the reward money to that poor coach driver. Perhaps that would exorcise that strange sense of guilt that was haunting him.

***

The dampness made his starched collar and snug buckskin breeches itch with every step, but the discomfort barely registered after a boyhood of suffocating jackets and ruffle-trimmed shirts. His breath came out as a wispy stream of white. Saying the weather was aptly British would be unfair, given how the unusually cold summer had been plaguing the rest of Europe and even North America, but Lehnsherr still thought this kind of humid, miserable greyness was something the Isles did exceptionally well. Despite the well-documented natural causes for the abnormal weather, the superstitious had been quick to blame witchcraft for their misfortunes. It was a sign of the times that the age-old hatred did not manifest past harassment and into the public burnings of the recent past: the fearsome reputation of the various 'special divisions' on the battlefield had made a lasting impression on the ordinary populace.

A small blessing in a deepening sea of suffering, Lehnsherr thought. There had been widespread fears about imminent crop failure and even famine in the coming months, with frosts blighting the fields and seedlings growing sickly without strong summer sunlight. It was only a matter of time before the hunger would fuel riots, likely to join forces with the Negro slaves and their allies calling for emancipation, all following the successes of the previous upheavals. The world had been restless in the past few years, bathed in the blood of the guillotined and bayoneted as it was born screaming the cry of a steam whistle. But Lehnsherr's focus had remained steady and unyielding in the storm of swiftly changing tides and grand empires, resolutely navigating his innate passion to cut to a select few targets in the past years. These pinpoints on his tiny map had dwindled to precisely one, which now hid somewhere in this vast city of scaffolding, wrought iron balconies, and white columns.

The dull sky gradually took on an amber glow, gilding the restless city and its inhabitants with its dying light. Lehnsherr indulged himself in watching the spectacle as he strode through the winding streets. He had a long evening ahead. 

And so, with a final adjustment of the stiff cravat knot at his throat, Lehnsherr presented himself to one of the several gaming houses at St. James’s. Behind the stucco facade and arched windows, _le bon ton_ , in their evening gowns and tailcoats, mingled under sparkling chandeliers, exchanging pleasantries over glasses of Madeira while obscene amounts of wealth changed hands on the tables at the shuffle of a deck of cards. 

By the time he crossed the marble hallway and into one of the many opulent rooms, his swift long strides had slowed to a leisurely gait, the harshness of his expression slackened to a careless friendliness, his posture regal in its grace but not intimidating. As the string quartet in the corner eased into a pleasant if unremarkable melody, it did not take long for polite society to notice the entry of this mysterious stranger.

He introduced himself as Magnus Eisenhardt, a friend of dear Marquess Rosedale who sadly could not be present this evening, from an emerging family that had made its fortune through its astonishing expertise on metals. He was in London to determine possible business venture opportunities and to admire the splendour of the British Empire. His parents had been a little distant during his strict upbringing, but were currently healthy and comfortable in a large villa in the Grand Duchy of Hesse. They kept in touch through frequent correspondence. He was a bachelor, but, much to his parents’ dismay, had no current interest in marriage, jokingly pleading a love for freedom. The men drank to that, the ladies gasping in mock-outrage.

Magnus Eisenhardt had never taken for a wife a fiery gypsy woman who wielded the devil’s wooden spoon and died giving him a child. He never had a daughter with an impossibly ticklish belly who was taken by smallpox when she had been barely out of her swaddling clothes. 

This man did not know loss, and his smiles were charming and utterly lacking in substance. He lost a modest sum at cards, more interested in the people around the tables than the contents on them. The British loved him as they would an exotic novelty: not belonging to their world, but captivating all the same. They were happy to indulge this delightful foreigner’s curiosity about the Prince Regent’s latest exploits, the identity of _Waverly_ ’s author, even about the current status of the Abomin--no no, dear Thomas, we call them our New Brethren now, after the Act, shame on you.

"But surely a gentleman as distinguished as Herr Eisenhardt wouldn’t be interested in those poor creatures?" some lady asked. Eisenhardt just smiled politely at her.

"I have to admit finding a certain…magnetism to them, especially the ones with unusual physical attributes. I understand there is an expert, one of yours, who goes by the name of…Sharp? No, Shaw I believe?" he enquired. His tone was light and his consonants slightly too crisp in places. 

"Oh yes, Doctor Sebastian Shaw," one of the men said,"Haven't seen him lately. Kindly chap, sacrificing himself to help those pitiful cases. I heard he keeps the most _fascinating_ specimens in his office." There was a murmur of assent amongst the small group. Someone motioned at a nearby server for another bottle.

While Lehnsherr seethed inside, Eisenhardt lifted a brow in casual interest.

"Yes yes, Herr Eisenhardt, a visit is an absolute must if you're interested in these oddities. The man simply adores receiving visitors."

"Rather, showing off and lecturing others," snorted a portly man.

"You don't say, Jones, you're just sour about losing that round of Macau to him!" Raucous laughter shook through the group as the offended party sputtered indigently. 

When a degree of order returned, Eisenhardt said, languidly swirling the champagne in his glass, "This doctor sounds like an interesting character. I hope he wouldn't mind my intrusion."

"Pshaw, he'd talk your ear off given the chance. And you're in luck, because the good doctor is just about to return after a stay in the country. Would you like us to arrange a meeting with him on your behalf?"

This time, the answering smile was genuine.

Some three hours later, Lehnsherr stepped out of the establishment into the drizzling night, the street lamps casting a soft glow on the passersby and clattering carriages. His new-found friends were disappointed by his polite refusal to grant them his extended company, but understood he was a busy man. As the sedan he’d hired wove through the glistening cobble streets, Lehnsherr systematically catalogued the loot of knowledge and connections he had earned that evening. While he confessed there was a primal pleasure and frankness in violence, sometimes it was necessary to play the game of civil artifice.


	3. And break his fingers to splinters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: brief mentions of gore and torture, references to drug abuse

Their breathing and pulse were strong and steady, but their eyes held a emptiness that shot ice through his bones. Shivering, he reached for them, and only a hollow neural groan answered. The backlash had been utterly indiscriminate. So he stood alone in the field of tangled bodies, their uniforms blue or red or green or black, their wide open eyes set in slack faces. The distant terror of those still living in both body and spirit clawed at his breast as they searched the grounds for the bleeding who were still salvageable.

For the first time in his life, Charles truly understood their fear.

“Xavier! Are you alright?” Essex's sudden appearance shocked him out of his trance. 

His dry mouth moved to say, "I am quite unharmed, thank you." Charles had always found his fellow officer's mind to be unpleasant in its greasiness, but now the weight of his _healthy_ mental cadence made him want to cry with relief. 

“I daresay my good chap, you’re more efficient than any cannon. Even I am not your match," Essex said approvingly. He prodded a limp British cavalryman with his bloodied sabre. "But you probably should work on your aiming. There were some good men lost there."

Charles remotely felt a hand on his shoulder. He could not answer, could not deny Essex's claims, could not begin to articulate the incomprehensible horror at how such a fundamental part of him could betray him in such a hideous way.

"Hmm, can you make them dance, Xavier?"

Oh yes, yes he could, he knew.

***

Charles woke up seeing his pallid form fractured into a dozen facets, the tinkling of the music box on the bedside cabinet doing little to stop a different kind of silence from filling his head. Stiff-limbed as he was, beneath the chill swelled gratitude towards the mirrored room that kept his memory-dream private.

***

Over the din surrounding him in a public house in Soho, Lehnsherr was listening to a song. It was a song of tin tankards, brass finishings, shovels clanging away at nearby construction sites, coins warm in pockets, all different in timbre and pitch. Nursing his drink, he found himself submerging into the metallic symphony of London, losing himself in the sheer force of its vitality. Seeking out profitable ore veins and wayward thimbles had earned him an exquisite sensitivity.

But then he pulled back to redirect his attention to the strange, falsetto alloy that ran through the walls of one Doctor Sebastian Shaw's office across the street where laid the fashionable quarters of Mayfair. The sound was not of those new pipes that pumped water into the homes of the intrepid wealthy, but some grid that crisscrossed the walls. Lehnsherr could not guess the use of this alien material he could not control, but its prevalence gave him a pulsing blueprint of metal, splaying out the building's layout to him in almost its entirety. Three storeys with nineteen rooms of various dimensions, two of which with its entire walls completely covered in the strange metal in sheet form. Four winding sets of wrought iron bannisters gave away the positions of the stairways, one leading down below the edifice into what may be a cellar. The humming of several doorknobs and their corresponding hinges confirmed the existence of several underground rooms, and a series of heavy vertical iron bars and a heavy lock suggesting a holding cell in the corner. His anger rising, Lehnsherr made a mental note to search the area once his deed was complete. In different locations lied two sizeable masses of copper, iron, brass, and nickel; meshed, welded, and coiled together with a dizzying but entirely contrasting complexity, each connected to the hollow heat of boilers. One of the masses was in motion, its myriad components whirling and humming, holding Lehnsherr's attention for a moment with its harmonic rhythm, before he abandoned it in favour of the nearby shell of that peculiar metal. A short distance below the -- helmet, most likely, judging from the shape and size, was a neat column of small round pieces of silver, all with an identical engraving that seemed faintly familiar. With a flash of impulse, Lehnsherr directed his focus onto that column, his brow tightened in concentration as he coaxed the silver into divulging a little more detail, until -- aha. Trust someone such as Sebastian Shaw to be gauche enough to monogram his own waistcoat buttons. His habits had not changed at all.

Oh, how he could have made a pincushion out of Shaw with those buttons, sight unseen, several yards away while drinking his small beer in a crowded pub. But he chose not to, instead deciding to face his quarry. It would be noble to assume even cold-blooded murderers such as Lehnsherr followed some code of honour, but there was a not negligible part of him that thirsted to witness the life slowly and painfully drain out of the man, leaving a harmless husk behind. He needed the promised finality that would come with that man's last breath, and would be denied that if he could not see Shaw's face as he expired.

That was Lehnsherr's first mistake.

***

“I do believe this would perform better if you had shaved your head first, my lord.”

“Kindly leave my hair in peace for this initial trial, doctor,” Charles said as the oversized headpiece was fitted, "And speaking of cephalic accessories, you yourself are looking quite the dashing gentleman in yours."

"Am I not always?" Dr. Shaw said, sweeping a hand over his new helmet, this one painted a rather alarming shade of pink. "Now, to test it out." _'I must confess, I had wanted it to be in purple, but alas, this is the closest colour I could obtain without involving financial ruin. Did you hear that? Answer in kind of you did.' _The doctor's mental voice had the steady confidence of someone who was well-practiced in conversing with those gifted with thought-transference.__

 _'Loud and clear, Your Majesty.'_ The heavy headpiece had some dampening effect, but Charles had no trouble compensating by raising the volume. "Now, are you certain these are necessary?" Charles asked, tugging at the straps that held him to the equally pink chaise longue.

"I regret to say it's a safety procedure, Lord Xavier. While _Cerebro_ has been tested to be perfectly safe, a small percentage of patients found their first run to be a little intense, a reaction which also necessitates the temporary vacating of the servants and the use of the special helmet as precautionary measures," said the doctor, his attention on the row of knobs and gauges on the contraption, "Should there be anything of immediate concern, you may directly notify me with your thought-transference."

There it was again, that prickling sense of unease. Charles thought he heard some growling at the back of his mind.

 _Reason, Xavier,_ Charles kept strictly to himself, breathing deeply. _Reason over blind and mechanical instinct. Suspicious naming and sartorial tendencies notwithstanding, Doctor Shaw is your physician, he is unmatched in his expertise on us New Brethren,_ Extraordinaires _, Gifted, Cursed, Spec Divs, Fae, whatever the parlance is nowadays, and he is trying to help you. Try to trust him, even though your primitive feelings protest, and cast away your prejudices, your pride. By God, your distrust is entirely irrational, and of course Howlett wants to have nothing to do with him, the man abhors all matters medical. Imagine walking out of this office once this is over, Xavier, master of your own mind, body, and birthright. No more hurting yourself or others. There, relax._

"Now then, the calibration is complete. Are you ready, my lord?" Doctor Shaw asked even as he was already reaching for the switch.

_'Let's find out.'_

The machine was activated, steam pumping the pistons and gears to life, and Charles' mind burst into all-encompassing blankness.

***

Just as the street urchins had reported and his ability confirmed, the doctor's staff was not on the premises as Lehnsherr disabled the entrance's lock with ease. With Shaw's helmet as his compass, he swiftly navigated through the hallways, and was soon silently opening the door of one of the rooms at the back. Slipping inside, he found himself in a sparsely furnished room that was dominated with the mass of metal he had felt earlier, rumbling and clicking away, sinister in its size and mystery. And there, fussing over the giant contraption of pipes and gears was none other than the man he had been hunting, with his back to him and wearing the most absurd helmet on his head.

It should not be surprising for Shaw, who created monsters out of children, to progress to constructing metal atrocities to do his bidding. Lehnsherr was seized with the urge to strangle him with his own creation, and raising his hand began to command the machine. But then, Shaw stepped to the side, and Lehnsherr’s eyes widened at what was revealed.

To his horror, there was a man protruding from the beast’s maw, strapped down and utterly at Shaw’s mercy. A fellow victim of his childhood tormentor, writhing in what must been the most inconceivable of suffering. The blades in Lehnsherr’s cloak trembled. No, he could not allow Shaw’s evil to continue any longer. With a delicate hand, he carefully severed the copper veins of the terrible beast one by one, his concentration absolute until he saw the prisoner relax. Steam bled profusely from the ruined monster, hissing and filling the room with a thickening fog. As Shaw attended to the carcass in bafflement, Lehnsherr stepped out into view. He spared a glance at the prisoner to confirm he was breathing strongly, and turned back to the man who had honed him into a weapon. The metal in the room, from pipes to knives to the nails in the floorboards, stood eager for his orders like a pack of hunting hounds. 

And so, the chase neared its end.

***

As a young boy, Charles accidentally latched onto the mind of an opium-eater that used to be his mother. She had transformed, at an alarming rate, into a black-veiled shape sprawled on a gigantic bed that shallowed her up. Young Charles' gift was in its infancy at the time, and with it came growing pains that wracked his brain with hurtful voices and emotions. When his nanny could offer nothing but pity behind her false smiles, he stumbled into his parents'-- no, mother's, bedroom, from which radiated a soothing calm. Taking a limp hand, he promptly lost consciousness and woke up two days later with an even worse migraine and his miraculously lucid mother crying into his nightgown.

Fortunately, his misadventure was henceforth never repeated, thanks to his new nanny being exceptionally vigilant, and to the diligent bolting of the bedroom door. Some time after, any risk of an unintentional encore perished altogether. But the memory of the secondhand euphoria persisted in Charles. Later, as a veteran with his gift turning against him, he was occasionally forced to take refuge in a few carefully measured drops of laudanum. Not enough to recreate the frightening bliss of his childhood, but enough to keep voices inside and out at bay. Moderation, everything in moderation.

Dr. Shaw's machine, and the effects on Charles' psyche, were anything but.

The treacherous birthright Charles had been so proud of in his youth was no longer an unpredictable beast breathing down his neck, but sedate and tame and…not quite there. And for first time in months, Charles was truly alone in his own mind. It should have been terrifying but he found himself embracing this solitude, this sacred treasure.

It was in this cloud of pleasant numbness that he noticed the itch on his foot. Yes, right there, his leg. Weakened and aching from months of inactivity, but no longer the property of a dead man. Laughing, Charles flexed his ankle and wiggled his toes, the soreness proof of his reclaimed ownership. Absently, he thought he heard the doctor's muffled voice. Then, the glorious numbness intensified, and Charles soared.

For a moment, he did not have the burden of earthly existence weighing down upon him. His body had been stripped away from him and he was now sent flying into a void where physical rules mattered naught, his consciousness stretched far into infinity. It was not the emptiness that haunted him in the mirrored guestroom, but another dimension altogether, somewhere beyond nature and into the astral. He had no name, no self, no fears, no desires, and it did not matter at all.

Higher and higher he drifted. Until.

“My my, there seems to be a malfunction.”

Free fall.

Plummeting back into his cage of a body and identity came as a cold shock. He gradually came to, feeling drained and weak, and in his dim awareness flared the startling presence of a stranger in the room. Dazed as he was, Charles' awareness quickly sharpened at the potential source of danger nearby, a thin sheen of sweat building up on his forehead as his heart began to race. 

“Why, isn’t it young Erik! You’ve grown into such a fine young man.” Dr. Shaw’s voice glowed with a heartfelt pride.

Even with his vision blocked by the headgear, the wrongness of the reunion hit Charles. The intruder -- Erik-- was spewing acrid flames of anger.

No, not merely anger. It was a white-hot inferno of the purest rage, calling for the blood and agony of the doctor who stood before him. Visions of horrific cruelty flashed before Charles: a man’s stomach bursting with gold, another pinned by the joints like an unfortunate bug, eyes watery with terror and pain. But most prominent were plans of Dr. Shaw being subjected to every imaginable ugly death, his inhuman screams screeching to the rhythm of this deranged killer’s heartbeat like some macabre duet. Before his mind's eye, Dr. Shaw's face shifted into that of a young soldier, gurgling on his own blood, shell-torn torso exposing organs that glistened like jewels. _Private Gill._ Choking, Gill convulsed, a flood of silver coins rupturing his entrails before morphing into bullets and taking frenzied flight like a plague. The metallic stench of blood and viscera seeped into the intertwining of memory and fantasy, veteran and murderer, and Charles forcefully wrenched himself away from the chaos. 

_No, never again._

With his voice caught in his throat and eyes burning with tears, he violently tugged at his bindings. Finally, his wrists came free. He pushed the headgear off, and slid out of the contraption. In the haze of hissing steam he saw Dr. Shaw greeting his prospective murderer with arms wide open. The killer seemed to be reaching for something beneath his cloak. Enfeebled as he was from the contraption, Charles managed to send out: _'Doctor, he’s here to kill you.'_

Dr. Shaw’s face fell blank.

***

Mrs. Bay had been embroidering a lovely paisley pattern onto a shawl for her granddaughter when a series of muffled crashes snapped her focus and rattled the furniture. After checking to make sure the porcelain and cut glass were still firmly in their cabinets, she returned to her work, and knew at once what to say to her gossipy friends: the doctor was in and back in business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Reason over blind and mechanical instinct."_ \-- Charles is quoting the Enlightenment philosopher Denis Diderot, who edited _L'Encyclopédie_ , one of the most important publications at the time. The full quote is "One must be oneself very little of a philosopher not to feel that the finest privilege of our reason consists in not believing in anything by the impulsion of a blind and mechanical instinct, and that it is to dishonour reason to put it in bonds as the Chaldeans did. Man is born to think for himself."


	4. Curtain up

It was quarter to ten, and Charles Xavier was utterly flabbergasted.

"Please, my lord, you need to retire after such a gruelling day. I promise to explain everything to you in the morning," said Dr. Shaw as he emerged from the boiler room next to the holding cell. He looked remarkably composed for a survivor of a murder attempt, with nothing but a few tears in his clothing where a dozen flying knives had failed to injure him.

"No, doctor, I insist. You are currently keeping in your cellar a madman who tried to murder you not two hours ago, and I would very much like an explanation to your persistence in sheltering him from Bow Street and putting us all in danger," Charles pressed, gesturing at the unconscious man locked behind the bars. The man's slack if drug-induced repose betrayed none of the fiery anguish and rage that had burnt Charles' psyche during the earlier struggle. Later, Charles had helped Dr. Shaw divest him of an assortment of metal objects on his body, resorting to a hacksaw for the claspless chain of a hexagram pendant, before strapping him down with thick leather cuffs with horn buckles. He was a lean man with chiseled features, so tall he barely fit on the heavy bed. 

"I understand he may be someone of interest to you, but I have seen the picture of destruction he has created as well as the derangement in his mind, and the moment he wakes up from this artificial slumber he is going to break out of this farce of a prison and resume his rampage. Doctor, you are putting yourself at risk."

The doctor's face twisted with something too quickly gone to be decyphered, his helmet casting gnarled shadows over his eyes, before softening into bland politeness. He let out a tired laugh.

"Oh, but where are my manners? Please forgive me for my brusque behaviour. It is indeed your right to know about someone who has posed a threat to us and could very well do so again. Firstly, I assure you that the holding cell has been specially fitted to contain someone with his talents. As long as the contraption it is connected to remains in working order, and my assistants and I will see to that, not even Erik's most ferocious of tantrums will be able to free him, soporifics or none," he said, his voice taking on an exasperated fondness as he looked at his prisoner. Charles raised an dubious eyebrow, but let the rhythmic clacking of the machinery fill the silence. Finally, the doctor turned to face him.

"Now please, let us take this conversation elsewhere."

Dr. Shaw gently but firmly led Charles out of the cellar, hand on his elbow, and up into the drawing room. Leaving Charles at the armchairs, he lit a pair of candles on the nearby table with his candlestick before making his way to the sideboard, sidestepping a few trinkets that had been tipped over during the commotion and righting a crooked painting. The warm scent of beeswax started to drift through the room. Taking a crystal decanter, the doctor poured two glasses before seating himself opposite of Charles, passing one to him. After swallowing his liquor in one gulp, he continued his tale.

"Erik, as you may have deduced already, is my son. Not by blood, but that had never mattered to me. His parents had fallen victim to violent prejudices, and I had raised him since. Dreadfully clever lad, learned quickly, and when he displayed signs of being one of our own, I'd never felt prouder in my life, " the doctor said wistfully, his eyes distant, "What a wondrous gift, to be the master over metal in an age built on a backbone of iron... He used to say metal sang to him.

"But Erik was a…deeply disturbed child, never truly recovering from the loss of his blood parents. Despite my best efforts to nurture and free him from his wretched past, the boy succumbed to his delusions. He believed I had been," Dr. Shaw paused, swallowing heavily, "hurting him, abusing him, going as far as accusing me of murdering his family. He rejected the name of his --our-- house, instead readopting the surname of his humble origins. _Lehnsherr_." The name was almost hissed out.

"Soon after his sixteenth birthday, he ran away. I never found him. That was over ten years ago."

Dr. Shaw was blinking rapidly as he looked away, and Charles was about to excuse himself when the doctor resumed, his voice almost a whisper, "My lord, I sincerely hope you will never know what it is like to be in limbo about the fate of your own child. Not knowing if he was healthy and well, or hungry and cold, or even if he'd, heaven forbid, encountered those degenerates who prey upon our kind. It's an agony nobody deserves."

Charles was staring at the swirls of the Persian carpet, his lips tight and his mind a haltering mess. Even when he had freely read others hearts, the words for such delicate situations often eluded him. 'A brilliant mind with a fool mouth,' as Raven had once remarked after a quarrel. His fingers tightened around his glass. If she hadn't snuck into the Xavier's pantry all those years ago, her blue skin and undeveloped gift would have left her distressingly vulnerable to the lynch mobs. Charles took a hasty sip from his glass, the nausea subsiding with the burn of the madeira. The doctor continued, hunched over as if his energy had left him with his recounting. 

"I would be lying if I had not felt relief and pride when I saw him a grown and strong man, regardless of his intentions. He is my son after all. And as reckless as my selfishness is in keeping him here, the alternative is unthinkable. There have been great strides in the courts for our brethren to be treated with equality, but prejudice is still rife in the system. Even with my influence, transportation would be the most optimistic scenario for poor Erik."

Charles nodded. Judges were still largely Ordinaries, many with hearts that hardened at the sight of scaled faces. In the case of Mark Casey, his scarlet eyes sent him to the noose instead of the customary workhouse. Obtaining leniency for someone as dangerous as Erik Shaw would be a hopeless task.

"I cannot lead my only son to certain death, Lord Xavier. I may bear the responsibility of a physician, but I am, foremost, a father. I have already failed him once, I cannot forgive myself to do so again." 

"And your solution is to keep him sedated in a cage like a wild beast? How is this limbo any different?" Charles said, clamping down on old memories. With all its violent emotion, Mr. Shaw's mind was the most brutally alive thing Charles had ever touched. Under different circumstances, he would have been mesmerized. 

The doctor was between the Scylla of sending his long-lost son to the gallows, and the Charybdis of becoming the jailer himself and watching him waste away in both body and mind. His son's murderous intent was so profoundly ingrained in him that granting him freedom would come at the price of everyone's safety. Charles blinked, realisation creeping onto him like a killing frost: his reasoning had been treating the man's dangerous nature as a constant in the equation, and not a variable.

Dr. Shaw licked his lips, as if hesitating about the words he was choosing. When he looked up, his gaze uncomfortably inspired, Charles knew the doctor had come to a similar line of thought.

"Lord Xavier, what is your opinion on correcting moral defects?"

***

It was another hour before Charles returned to his room. The mirrored walls multiplied the flame of his candle, casting the small but comfortably appointed room with the glow of a myriad fireflies. Shutting the door behind him silenced the bustle of the household staff that had returned for the evening. Charles put right a coat stand that had been overturned, ignoring his growing headache. After setting his lamp at the bedside table, he sat down onto the soft bed and undressed for the night. As he removed his boots, Charles paused for a moment. Then, he slowly slid his hands down the length of his left leg, past his knee and the hem of his breeches, his thumbs gliding down the ridge of his tibia, a cautious anticipation building up the further down he reached. But soon he breached that boundary at his calf where the firm pressure disappeared, his fingers pressing on insensate and foreign flesh. Disappointment sank cold inside him. He dug his nails in, hoping for even a spark of pain, but it yielded nothing. His foot, which he had flexed and rotated with ease just earlier, was an unresponsive dead weight once again, the pleasant burn of stretching it all but a memory. Charles choked down a scream of frustration.

He completed the rest of the night's routine with a roughness unbecoming of someone of his breeding, the pounding in his head aggravating his temper. His ghosts wanted to haunt him, and as amicable as he was reputed to be, Charles had had enough conversing for the day. 

"Later," he promised as he extinguished his light. 

And so he was left in darkness and peace for a little while.

***

There was a young girl in the row in front, full of life and radiant under the lights of the chandeliers. The actors had retired for the intermission, the stage hidden behind pleated drapes, and she was pestering at an older boy at her side, presumably her brother. The loose ringlets of her hair glistened in health, her rosy cheeks plump as she laughed at the boy's exaggerated reenactments of the play's characters. Their heads bobbed from the tops of the large plush seats, with occasional flailing arms on the boy's part.

"How your acting is rubbish!" the girl said in English, her accent coarser than what her silk gown and coral necklace would have suggested. 

"I am most offended and wounded by your grievous accusation," huffed the boy in good humour. "Just where, precisely, lies the fault in my fine acting? And no, none of your tricks, dear sister." The girl giggled in delight at the endearment.

"La, to begin with, your back is too stiff for a character like …"

Perhaps that was what little Anya would have grown to become: a bright, confident young lady not the least afraid of speaking her mind. Like mother, like daughter. Lehnsherr allowed himself to feel an old sentimentality he had never quite managed to excise. During the lulls between his hunts, he sometimes indulged in episodes of fancy in which he was a hopelessly proud husband and father watching his daughter take her first unassisted steps, her tiny feet with soles still round and soft. It was another category of pain he had learnt to endure, one borne from an imagination that twisted visions of impossible futures into his gut like knives. Later, the festering ache would burst into unbridled enthusiasm in dispatching his quarry.

According to his calendar, Anya would have become six years of age in three weeks. The girl in front of him looked a little older, but Erik was no judge on that. Would his daughter have liked the drama of the stage, with its extravagant costumes and lurid tales? Or would she have pursued gentler interests, sitting on her mother's lap with embroidery hoop in hand, learning to recreate the intricate patterns of her people? Would _gelt_ have floated around her dancing form in the candlelight, the coins forming gleaming constellations at her whim? Would she and Erik have listened to the secret songs of iron or copper together, eyes closed as if in prayer?

A renewed bout of childish laughter shook him out of his revery. Feeling a sudden hollowness, he stood up to leave, and only then did the incongruity of the entire situation strike him. 

Without warning, the boy turned to face him, a disconcerting intelligence in his large eyes. The theatre was plunged into an unnatural silence and stillness, the girl frozen in mid-gesture. Lehnsherr called out to the surrounding metal, but none answered.

Looking curiously familiar as he frowned, the boy opened his mouth.

"Oh for goodness sake, not another one."

Then, a charging cavalry erupted through the stage curtains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The calendar Erik carries is a Hebrew calendar, which differs from the Gregorian calendar in being lunar-based. According to my research, Jewish people traditionally did not celebrate birthdays outside of bar/bat mitzvah, but please correct me if I'm wrong.


	5. The Exorcist's Gambit

Perhaps it was a remnant of his paternal instinct, but when Lehnsherr came to, he was out of harm's immediate way with the two children clamped tightly under his arms. Depositing them near a shadowed alcove and shielding them with his bulk, he assessed the chaos as he caught his breath. The mounted soldiers were methodically slashing down fleeing members of the audience and firing on those who huddled deep in the rows of seats, red rain splashing onto red cloth. It was a riot of yelling, hooves clattering, muskets discharging, women screeching. And yet the masses of metal in the vicinity remained silent: Lehnsherr's birthright had been inexplicably amputated from him.

He drew in a breath to compose himself. It was not the first time he had something taken from him, and it was definitely not the right time to be maudlin about it. He had a self-imposed duty to protect his two young charges and extract them from this wretched scene. Scarlet bloomed from the chest of a young man running past them before he fell with a wet scream. The boy behind Lehnsherr squirmed, bumping against the back of his knees, but the girl remained as still and silent as a fawn, possibly from distress.

Incapacitated as he was, Lehnsherr was far from helpless. He spotted a clear passage to one of the discreet entrances for servants.

"Boy, you quickly take the girl to the exit on the right and -"

"Oh, no need for that, kind sir."

The boy, having escaped from Lehnsherr's corral, was looking up at him with perfect calmness. His previous rowdiness all but gone, he carried himself with a self-assured dignity that was disquieting for his small stature and round, freckled face.

He turned to his sister. "Raven dear, if you would please?"

For the lack of a more articulate description, the girl _changed_. Her small shape shed into a mass of blue scales from which emerged a tall and imposing bugler dressed in the same uniform as their assailants, the increased mass forcing Lehnsherr to step back. Before Lehnsherr could recover from his astonishment, the soldier breathed in deeply and blasted a harsh, ear-splitting tune from his brass instrument. Long accustomed to the rich, resonant tone of the alloy, the sound felt pinched and lifeless to Lehnsherr despite its great volume.

The massacre ceased immediately. The perpetrators lowered their weapons, and promptly withdrew through the same curtain of their entrance, a receding tide leaving behind torn bodies. The drapes billowed from the force of the retreat before gradually rippling into stillness. What remained of the chaos was quiet sobbing and shuddering breaths. One surviving gentleman stumbled about as he absently searched for his missing arm. It was nearly peaceful.

The boy was staring down at where his shoes were spoiled by the pooling blood.  Unperturbed by the sight before him, he raised his head to face Lehnsherr once again. His eyes were very blue.

"Excuse the mess. Now, allow me to accommodate us with something a trifle more pleasant," the boy said, winking, as he pressed two fingers to his temple.

The world bled to a white flatness.

***

Splendid, splendid. Why couldn't it have been something as frivolous as Perry's repertoire of drinking songs?

For a stranger he had restrained for all of a scant few moments, the mental imprint before him was perplexingly complete in both body and mind. Imprints from sources still living were exceedingly rare in themselves.

But no matter. Now that he had gained awareness of his dreaming, he could now bend his surroundings to his will and carry out the removal procedure. He tapped his left foot on the thickly carpeted floor and was pleased to note the responding sensation. The study room he had recreated was a near perfect replica of the one in his country house: sizeable but not excessively so, with carved oak panelled walls lined with full book shelves, and a crackling fireplace illuminating a low table bracketed by a pair of invitingly overstuffed armchairs. Everything was all tastefully arranged to project an aura of warmth and repose rather than of vulgar gaudiness. The most notable difference was the absence of functional windows or doors; it would not do for the newcomer to encounter Charles' other tenants. No longer in the body of his boyhood, Charles clad himself in his favourite green velvet collar frock coat. Erik Shaw's imprint had demonstrated a weakness towards children, but Charles had neither the skills nor the experience to convincingly portray himself in the innocent, juvenile manner which was now the norm. He had, as any member of the peerage at the turn of the century, been expected to behave as a miniature gentleman as soon as he could walk. A pity he could not borrow LeBeau's exceptional acting skills under these circumstances.

His companion, by contrast, retained his frightful appearance, with his torn shirt, long hair, face scruffy with beard, and a feral quality in his grey eyes. He gave off an air that resembled one of Kurt's fighting hounds. It was a vast departure from the clean shaven and immaculately dressed man sleeping in the doctor's holding cell, but the mental signature was unmistakeable; it carried the same savage yet intricately disciplined vitality that Charles had found so intriguing.

Intriguing, but no less dangerous, and for that reason alone Charles must destroy this accidental copy. Any risk of acquiring traits from a murderous lunatic was unacceptable. He would not, however, deny feeling the temptation of preserving this multifaceted enigma of a false mind. Had his ethical principles been less robust, he might have even accepted Dr. Shaw's offer to examine and modify the genuine article. Curiosity not tempered by morality was a monstrous thing. The doctor's willingness to have his son's very identity rewritten had initially troubled Charles until he envisioned the doctor's inner desperation at the prospect of losing his son again. Childless as he and his companions were, Charles could understand the parental wish for the safety of one's offspring regardless of cost. Over supper that night, he had proposed vastly less intrusive safety measures to curb Mr. Erik Shaw's violent tendencies, but the actual planning and embedding should wait until morning. Charles had other matters to attend to first.

A quick skim confirmed no sign of recognition on the imprint's part, the chaotic circumstances of their first encounter preventing commitment of Charles' features. Despite the orange beard covering much of his face, his surprise at Charles' sudden growth to adulthood and the change of scenery was poorly concealed. His eyes darted around, troubled, as if searching for something. Ah, but of course.

Charles smiled wryly. "No need to fret, she was not real, but simply a memory come to life." _Much like yourself, sir,_ he thought. "I understand I owe you an explanation for the horrid situation. But first, introductions should be in order." 

He bowed.

"Francis Darkholme, at your service." As strangers, he was free from his name: an advantage he was going to use to its fullest.

"Max Eisenhardt."

Charles carefully kept his friendly smile, not allowing any reaction to show. None of the other impressions he had inherited had been capable of lying. Perhaps it was a trait fundamental to Mr. Shaw's character? In any case, let this copy be Max Eisenhardt, and the man he was based on be Erik Shaw.

Sinking into one of the comfortable armchairs and crossing his ankles, Charles gestured carelessly at the remaining chair.

"Please, seat yourself. Some port?"

Two glass goblets materialised on the table's tea tray. Eisenhardt scarcely gave them a glance, towering over Charles from where he continued to stand.

"You're an Enthraller. I felt you in my head earlier." Charles caught a fleeting memory of a girl in white, her eyes narrowed as a young Eisenhardt's vision splintered with pain. Abruptly, the image was cut off by mental barriers slamming into place. Oh dear, this would make dismantling virtually impossible.

He shook his head, keeping it low while lightly furrowing his brows, a gentle but wounded smile on his lips. It was a common expression he wore in the face of the fearful or hostile.

"I prefer 'clairvoyant' or 'thought-medium'. My talents are considerably more modest than the grandmasters you hear about who laid waste to entire battalions in the war," Charles said casually, practice lending a smooth veneer to his tale. "I'm predominately a glorified messenger and detector of moods, which makes me very popular with the ladies, mind you, but sadly nothing strong enough to divulge anything interesting. My secondary gift, however, is a little different," he straightened himself and motioned grandly at the study, "Dream-walking, dream-weaving, however you call it on the Continent. And we, my friend, are currently in one of my creations. I am my own Morpheus, behold my realm."

He extended a hand towards the fireplace, and from it coaxed out a small flame. The little piece of silken light flexed and twisted until it became a flickering faun that danced on Charles' palm and played a charming tune on its flute. At this point, the subject should usually be distracted enough for Charles to slip through undetected and gain a foothold.

Yet the barriers held strong. If anything, Eisenhardt's voice grew icy.

"And so you find entertainment in bloodsports and in trapping strangers for company. Release me and your hold on my birthright." 

The faun fluttered out of existence, and Charles let his smile waver. 

"At present, I am slightly…ill. It has rendered my gift a trifle temperamental I'm afraid. My gift has its own limitations to begin with and I assure you, your presence here was entirely accidental. I myself am not immune to the dreamer's ignorance of being inside a dream, and as a result my imagination runs rampant before awareness allows me to reign it in. The dreadful reports from the war must have fuelled these ghastly pictures of horror. I don't often receive visitors, but from experience this mistake should right itself the moment either one of us awakes." The best fabrications were the ones wrapped in a layer of truth in order to be palatable.

"Then rouse yourself."

"I cannot, and, believe me, I've made many attempts in the past. My best option is to wait for dawn to come and to trust my natural clock to rouse me. My abilities, as they currently stand, do not allow termination through willpower alone. Taking my own life here will only cause the current dream to collapse into chaos, and could land you into another scrape," Charles sighed as he took a sip from his glass."And I definitely would not advise harming yourself to escape; at this depth you will only reappear in another part of my realm and in addition, the injuries you incur may be unpleasant to bear. The mind is a fascinating thing, but with its complexity comes fragility." And what fragility indeed. Any harm inflicted onto an imprint would ultimately be reflected back onto its host. That had been a harsh lesson for Charles to learn. His foot rubbed his left ankle discreetly. It was queer to see Eisenhardt standing and breathing before him, surface emotions a whirling pool of agitation, yet also know the seemingly independent entity was but a very misled parcel of Charles' own psyche. It was an experience that never ceased to simultaneously intrigue and disturb him.

He continued. "I do, however, have methods to help you awaken from here. The first step of which is by informing you of your current situation. Simple knowledge opens the doors for even the non-gifted to manipulate their dreams. Or perhaps," he added a little teasingly, " _I_ am the product of a poorly digested supper of yours?"

"My birthright has no hold on the soul, not even my own, and the very thought of arguing with an imaginary Englishman in my sleep is too absurd for words." Eisenhardt was frowning at the wrought iron grate of the fireplace.

"You have just witnessed a cavalry charge in a theatre, yet arguing with me is what you consider to be bizarre? You must have rather unusual criteria for what qualifies as absurdity," said Charles, chuckling. "And earlier on, what did you mean by your 'birthright'? Oh." He widened his eyes. "Could it be, you're a fellow breth- oh, pardon me, _Extraordinaire_? Oh, what a joyous encounter! What is your gift?"

As wagered, Eisenhardt relaxed at the enthusiastic inquiry devoid of fear or suspicion. But even as he gave his answer, the defences remained firmly in place and could not be breached unnoticed. In such a battle against himself, stealth was of the essence.

"That is a banging talent, I daresay. But unfortunately for you, the natural laws don't apply here, so I'm afraid you will be deprived of it unless it is a physical attribute. But I would be overjoyed to meet you in person in the waking world! Now, let me help you wake."

The imprint was finally beginning to unwind sufficiently when something caught his attention and blanched his face. Charles followed Eisenhardt's troubled line of vision. In lieu of the unremarkable pastoral landscape commissioned by one of his forebears, there hung an immense portrait of an unknown young red-haired woman holding an infant. Something was wrong. Upon returning his attention to his companion, he was immediately set on edge: there was a foreboding tension in Eisenhardt's jaw and spine.  

"You. This is an exceedingly cruel trick you are playing on me. Stop this at once." His pale eyes held a coiled rage that promised violence. Charles lifted his hands up in supplication.

"Mr. Eisenhardt, I honestly don't know what you are talking about. This is not my doing." Charles' confusion was no feint. Devil take him! How was it possible for an imprint's memories to manifest within Charles' domain? Was his illness worsening? Terror began to whirl in the pit of his stomach at the thought, before years of discipline forcefully contained and isolated it. It would do him no favours to lose control at that moment.  

He was about to further pacify the imprint when he was interrupted by a sudden clanging sound from the hearth. He threw a quick glance in the direction just in time to detect the barest movement from the right where the tool set was situated. Before he could dismiss the sight as a trick of a tired mind, the iron poker shuddered once more before levitating off the rack and gliding towards them as if possessed.

Charles stared, stunned rigid in his seat. 

"That…is astounding," he caught himself saying. What the deuce was wrong with him? Eisenhardt gave him a curious look. The poker flattened and divided into thin blades, tapered and glinting like a formation of silver fish. They hovered quite closely to Charles' throat.

"Is this not one of the impossibilities you've asserted? What other falsehoods have you been feeding me?"

"With all due respect, it was not a falsehood, but a previous belief falsified by new evidence. Mr. Eisenhardt, please, let me help you leave this place. You do not belong here."

"I do not belong anywhere." Charles felt the cold metal shiver at his throat. "You have been generous with your knowledge, but you have been also very naïve to think I wouldn't discover your hiding important matters from me. Unfortunately for you, you have been playing against someone considerably more skilled at that game. Now, do you know a certain Sebastian Shaw?"

The surprise question took Charles unprepared, and a traitorous breath taken out of rhythm was all it took. Raven had been right: his acting was rubbish.

"So, you do know him." Eisenhardt had a very sharp smile. The rage in his eyes had smouldered down into a hard, reptilian coldness. "What a joyous encounter. But that should be hardly surprising; that man has an inclination for your kind after all. How foolish of me to believe you to be a victim of his dreadful schemes, and not my jailer."

"I find offence in your accusation when I have been doing nothing but aid you in your successful departure. Dr. Shaw is my personal physician and has been treating my illness with the utmost care and diligence. You, my good fellow, were trying to murder him. You cannot expect me to passively witness that without lifting a finger to stop it. You have selflessly protected my sister and I during the calvary attack earlier, so it is clear you have the capacity for doing good. Dr. Shaw holds you in high regard and cares deeply for you; surely whatever grievances you have against the man can be settled through more civilised means. You need not stain your hands any further."

Eisenhardt's lip curled up into a sneer. "You are a fool to trust him. For all the self-assured arrogance your kind dwells in, you are blind to the evils he has committed. Do you truly believe in his sincerity to cure you and not exploit your birthright? You speak lightly of your abilities, but Enthrallers of your caliber are uncommon, and that man would not waste an opportunity to acquire one for his own purposes. Open your eyes, Darkholme. You know nothing about him. Nothing at all."

So much for diplomacy. Charles' throat itched for the wine in his hand. Resorting to brute force was not an experience he wished to repeat, but he no longer had much of a choice in the matter.

"Kindly enlighten me then, Mr. Erik Shaw."

Temper fuelled offence at the expense of defence, and Charles finally felt the seams in the imprint's shields crack and buckle from the roiling fury beneath. Before his throat could be slit, he dashed through into the turbulence beyond, seized the nearest filigree thread, and tore it out. Somewhere beyond the study there rose a melody sung in a mellow, feminine voice. Like the painting, the music was utterly alien to Charles, its strange words and harmonies calling from faraway lands.

The knives threatening Charles dropped and slid harmlessly down him and the armchair in a silver rain.

"Magda?" Eisenhardt's voice sounded broken, its ragged edges a wound reopened. He had taken to searching the room for openings that did not exist, wandering like a lost man. His mental shields had collapsed with his composure, the core that will unravel the imprint altogether exposed. Like anything else concerning this oddity of an imprint, its raw gem-like brilliance more resembled the many minds Charles had crushed not so long ago in the name of his country and his brethren. _No_ , he reminded himself, bracing for the pain of self-destruction as he readied his attack, _this is simply clever trickery borne from your illness, a tumour that must be removed. Now hush._

Before Charles could execute the final strike, the imprint's outline blurred and convulsed. Charles blinked, and the spot Eisenhardt previously occupied was empty, the music vanishing with its pursuer. A glance at the wall revealed the painting restored to its former blandness. Astonishingly, not the faintest residue of the imprint remained, may it be a fragment of memory, knowledge, or mannerism. On that puzzling anti-climax, Charles sagged into his seat and drained his drink. Next to the tool rack with its restored poker, the fire continued to crackle and radiate heat. 

Charles was certain it shall soon banish the chill within him.

***

"Oh dear, stirring already? Methinks it's time for another one."

Bony, well-groomed hands handled the syringe with a deftness that spoke of extensive experience. Work completed, Erik's limp arm was gently tucked back under the bedclothes. Then, a kiss to his forehead. It was not surprising to discern faint lines across the surface, with Erik's frown being a constant presence since his boyhood.

"Sweet dreams, my son."


End file.
